How they corner and break us

The claustrophobic holding, waiting, attention contracted in each creak and sound, the bending forward, the ache and burning, the way the mind races forward trying to know every single aspect of the feeling of despair, the fear, the grief, the strength of certainty that there is a limit, a breaking point, though it remains unclear whether it is this moment or a distance still, and the lack of distance between the grip of the walls, and the flexing in preparation, the agile made concrete, to pounce to pound to wail on the predators stalking, should they dare reveal themselves, crouched in ready, crouched in hiding, crouched until exhausted… devoured by the encroaching, inevitably consumed by it all… so that maybe when death reveals itself in a uniform, maybe there is at least sky beyond him… maybe beyond the endless terror, there is freedom again.

 

 

 

 

Dear Kevin (this probably won’t be a poem)

It’s funny how you jump in and out.

Jess said you show up in her dreams every few months,

I said, wait - me too. Though in truth 

I think it’s only been two or three times since.

We kind of laughed a million miles away from one another, about how easy it was to imagine 

-you-  doing that to everyone. How many people do you visit? Making the rounds? Is it one each night or do you bounce like tigger between each pillow

Into people’s sleep-

to this one you say hi,

to this one you share news,

this one sing a lullaby,

for this a hidden truth,

I think I’m still mad at you. 

Like I’m mad at everyone who died too early. Krystin and Hallie, Tyler and my Uncle. Whether I was close and personal or distant… sad at the loss of what could be. Pissed at the emptiness where you should be. 

But death is also funny like that. Because you jump in and out, and sometimes it’s a sadness, and sometimes a laughter, and sometimes an anger and sometimes a memory that can’t really be categorized so easily. And in between, these days I don’t remember… and that’s ok. 

But keep visiting, sprite like, as long as it doesn’t tie your soul to some agony. I know a lot of people would be happy to see your smiling face. 

Sloth

 

What good are my thoughts and prayers, 

when the children were shot while praying?

My empathetic heartbreak, my sending good vibes, my words spoken or unspoken, 

when they were bombed while their heads were bowed? 

My learning, my teaching, my shouting from the roof tops,

when they died with G-d's name on their nutrient deprived lips?

My holding space for, consoling, and rage filled grief, 

when news of the next preventable tragedy is already breaking?

When the sin is not that the devil took up arms in the mind of an individual, 

but our collective inaction, without malice, stumbling into utter negligence, 

witnessing each tragedy unfolding, and doing nothing,

when the creator has given us all the ability, tools and reason...

and we can't be bothered to raise a finger. 

 Near my home 

There is an anorexic Eiffel 

A radio tower cousin, dominating the skyline 

I can see it from my office a mile away

But today

As I approached

It had nothing on the beauty 

Of the creator’s sky, the reflection of the sun on the clouds behind,

And I wonder if that French tower knows the same truth.

Note

 I just saw the funniest thing, a poem from a long time ago got flagged with a content warning. I'm not even really sure why, it was about feeling hurt, left out, ashamed, guilty, defensive, etc... angst? drama? relationships!!! I don't think there was even anything in it that was like violent or sexual. 

But it's funny that someone would take the time to flag that one since there are posts on here about violence and sex and other "adult" topics. So weird...  I don't even really know when this post was flagged... maybe it was way back in 2011?  I wonder if it was a single word choice. Kind of like how the administration is banning things based on a word list and not really looking at the content.  I don't really care to repeal... seems silly. I was just looking at the content guide, and it said they can erase your blog and your google account for violations. I can't even imagine... I mean... maybe I should be printing this stuff or backing it up elsewhere. SOOOOO WEIRD. 

Maybe my poem for today should be about censorship and burning the american flag (it is in the news again). 

Anyway, this is a blog of personal poetry and creative writing. It's not meant for everyone... and reader be warned... it's bad poetry, so much so that sometimes I don't call them poems but flowings... as in, flowing out of my mind.

 On the 466th day, or just each yesterday since 1948, or the crusades, the exodus, the unfortunate story of humanity…

I heard a story on the waves of another hospital bombing,

And I noticed I didn’t say my customary prayer,

               As I would, had an ambulance sped by

               Or a bus gone off road

               Or a shooting (with disgust on my tongue)

And I was reminded of what Alyssa said about holding too much empathy at once,

Short circuiting the system, burnout, compassion fatigue

And how Ani said rather than holding anyone to account, we’ll drive out of range

And how my anger, sometimes, is the only thing that remains

To hold the line,

 

And when I asked what we should do, (when tearing everything down is the only real answer,)

- we could only come to an agreement, to ask of ourselves, of others

to keep the worry, the outrage, the prayer on our lips.

To seal their deaths with a kiss

(Missed yesterday😒 wrote this this morning about yesterday, I guess we will see if I write another tonight) 

Social anxiety

If you had seen me today,

I might have appeared triumphant,

Arms spread wide,

In my casual stride, 

With a smile just as bright and eyes sun lit. 

And on the inside, I was rehearsing lines, 

affirming my life, 

Softening the tight knotted 

muscles of my stomach

I walked the block for 15 minutes, 

Arriving too early for our summit,

And when you arrived

I wrapped my arms for a hug 

And pushed the thought out

That I’d already buggered it

And for two hours I fought

with a backstage thought 

About the volume of my voice

Amongst the clamoring noise

And the croaked choked passage  

where by breath caught

Like my pancakes, my stories were half chewed

No punchline to make, cart besting the horse 

Dismissing the intrusive thought to turn the joke lewd,

My tongue jumbled my words,

 and made the awkward worse.

But as I faded into mumbles to end it, 

You left me with a compliment…

said I’d been the best part.

So I should have left -a full heart, instead

My mind spent the next part

Worrying…

Have I given her the wrong impression? 

Walt’s Maple

 I used to think of that tree as ours

One side turned to the road another towards

the screened in porch.

We’d marvel 

     Not knowing anything, except it’s curious 

Bloom, how the leaves took different shapes,

How half reached for the sky while the 

Other clung,

How outwards vibrant green turned to red

While the inward yellowed and browned, 

A divided tree, 

      We wondered aloud at its differences

   Wondered even if, it was a graft some part gifted to the whole, an addition, too special

But this year, I watched the tree alone, 

as the branches reaching toward our porch did not bud, 

Walt told me the roots -not pruned, had choked it dry, 

And I,

By myself, cleaned the porch in which you used to sit, 

   The living room in which we played,

The dining area in which we ate,

The bedroom where we once laid,

     And then set out, saying goodbye alone, to Walt’s maple, no longer yours and mine

 (well maybe still mine). 

New life

 G-d carved her knife along the lines of my feet, find myself walking down a new street, murals of divinity, geometric patterns, an icecream shop to be, and me with my dance moves, at the walk up coffee dispensary,  waiting impatiently for an Americano.

She with a blade so thin, I couldn’t feel it move within, and still sometimes wonder if my path was divided at all. Multiplied, and I am in a brand new St. Paul apartment staring at the lightning grasping across a breath of sky. Forking, a life untied, unmoored, set free, and somewhat ruefully seeking new security. 

And of the limitless paths unspooled, which will this thread bear? I ask for the highest and greatest- of that which is unfathomable, my pleasure a trifling annoyance as is the drip of chalk dust in my office -off hundred year old bricks which she is scraping, to me a nuisance, to them a returning, a riffing, a new way forward. 

Everything expanding, and all of us cloying to what we once knew, or believed we knew, or at least felt at one time determined to hold, and she with her sharp embrace, telling all of us no. Be!  she commands and scattering we flee, shards glorifying that infinite synonym of me. Each division compelling us forward, into what we can never be certain. 

Dinosaurs (may 2018?)

 Amongst the flighted, 

at the lake of isles,

I spot,

The long legged, narrow beak.

A hose necked, high rise

blue and white and black,

Surveying the glistening waters, and the prairie surrounding,

In all it's majestic prehistory, 

Still skittish to my presence. 

I spot also,

a tiny brown thing,

Fluttering, waving from stock  to stock of the weightless golden pond grass, 

A burst of a launch each time,

across the distance from flowing strand to flowing strand,

Always catching talons first, in show 

of minuscule carnality. 

Heart Song (Nov 2019?)

 Heart song

What does it mean to know someone’s heart song? To vibrate just so,

Perhaps how to manipulate the strings, to pluck, to push?

The sound of longing for

someone,

to hold your heart just so,

to make room to allow for bounds,

Reverberations, 

To hold that breath,

In rhythm, 

to hold that space, 

In concert,

To be sensitive enough to the tone,

That as it swells, they grow

And as it wanes they enfold. 

A mindful musician, allows the melody to evolve, 

to change, 

to repurpose old notes and bridge them to new movements, 

a medley is unfolding, 

a dissonance 

giving way 

to a joyfully familiar refrain.

Forgive me these tears

 

Why have I not written you a poem?

I asked myself that throughout our time, 

not wishing to malign, to concretize, or mislabel,

because the muse did not move me to feel so drawn - I worried that I didn’t feel compelled, and that that meant something. 

And it did mean something.

 

I sit with my heartbreak now, most days managing well, 

That’s what they say, anyway.

 

Sometimes, 

I miss the subtle ways, you infiltrated my day with comfort and ease. 

The created space, in which I could shift the weight and just be, 

The lack of task, of drive to compete, 

The loving gift -to feel rather than editorialize,

That was my why – each and every time. 

 

And sometimes even, I miss the twist, 

the way I could ignore my existence -and dwell on yours, 

that care taking role, the letting go 

myself on hold, to be yours… 

overthinking each little thing, 

despite it not being asked for, 

and not expected. 

 

I guess this is your rose, 

And maybe now with the floodgates open, 

I can close out our chapter, and move to the next 

I’ve never been great at letting go,

But forgive me, I’m also not so good at remembering. 

(An excerpt)

 ...but alas  I am for now,

      no  teetotaler, 

I’m a drunk for 

                soul and romance,

And the Chemist’s sun drop elixir,

                                 -even if it’s always cloudy,

          the fog lifts now and then 

to spill daylight upon 

     my dreams

             and make them real. 

This job

This job is…

Being pulled in thirty directions at once.
Responding in a way that validates, while also holding ground.
Grounding. Holding. Pushing it back on them.
There is a mindfulness that must be maintained,
an appreciation for the flow, and the gifts,
to get through each rift, breach and repair.


And yet, there is a steadiness that must exist,
a structure, a brace,
and also, a constant wobble -to embrace the ever-changing circumstances.


There is a preparedness,
a resolve,
that at times, will be faked.
And the shakiness beneath,
will be breathed into -though never quite concluded.


A deep sigh, a belly laugh, an un-consolable wail,
The sounds of release, in their myriad forms,
Tummy grumbles, guttural growls,

And the snarkiest, oh,
prepare to be bowled over by the charging sarcastic defense


The places the mind goes,
It will be interesting,
One must stay curious, and focus on sifting
-knowing full well anything important will return.


It takes belief,
A knowing that the cognitive dissonance is necessary,
that from the gray unknown, magic can appear,
a faith in the heart’s ability to break and expand,
to burst forth from the old shell,
and renew from a truer self.

***************************

I have been editing this for a few days, but lost steam... so this may or may not be the last incarnation. 

Vessels of Love

When we met, you were an intricately blown glass vase, bright orange, yellow, red, and rich blue pulled through the crystal. Handles, wound corners, fragile at a glance, but solid to touch. You poured out a half dozen directions, a roman fountain, sustained by unseen aqueducts, life giving, and pure.  

When we became friends, a punchbowl, delicately adorned with images: secretive, tantalizing, deceitful and delicious. You ladled out knowledge and treasures. At times marveling at your ability to gift, nourish and enchant, but grumbling all the while as others pulled into their own cups. 

When we coupled, a colander, deep welled to conceal the cavities. Unaware of what was being poured in, covertly and singly focused on watching it spill out everywhere. Neither the syrup of security, nor the bold zest of love, remained to entice or refresh. 

When we finished, a shallow plate, rimmed in gold, and ornamented with tiny gargoyles. Sleekly finished and slippery, so that every offering would not tarnish or remain. A porcelain wall, a museum piece, cold and non-functional, leaving the bitter ache of what could have been. 

Everything owned and nothing known

 I am not a farmer

I do not know this land

I cannot say whether the golden seeded strands beckoning the sky for a kiss, swaying, not dancing, as the growls of angry motorists pass by, caged into this sidewalk display, cemented in, just a flash of green along the busy byway, is prairie grass

Or 

The origins of all of this western culture.

This coffee grown elsewhere

This iPhone manufacture elsewhere

This Cotten shirt sewn elsewhere

This metal chair mined and smelted elsewhere

But like I said

I am not a farmer. 

Flowers

The Buddha raised the flower and…

As if it were that simple.

As if the mind did not stray, like pollen lifts

As if the longing did not pull, like petals to the earth

As if the stomach did not turn, dizzy stems yearning sunward

As if the back did not strain, vines grasping to the nearest firm  

As if the muscles could not be scratched, thousand pest bites taunting

And the heart bleed into itself for thirst, this perennial karmic binding.

The Green

My heart loved you, 

The way the sun lights the million green things, 

Delighting in the attunement to each angle, each pitch

Desirous of the epochs locked within each chlorophyll cell,

In awe, inhaling the multitude of contrasts, 

And sighing in wonder at the majesty of the all.

So now with a careful tweeze I pull thorns, 

Ravaging the flesh, that once filled with breath,

And wonder what poison should come from the next, 

What pitfall of darkness the forest dares me to embrace,

What malice is in store for the romantic in haste. 

(July 2018)

Darling,
     When every exhausted muscle is
     solidifying into its angry strain,
          what words can I offer, 
                    what amusements or reassurances, 
          to bow you over in laughter
                    or cathartic release, 
          to remind you that you've done
                    everything in your power thus far
          and perhaps offer a lens
                    to reconcile your needs, 
          with a world that seems
                    so ceaselessly demanding?

(Sept 2019)

It used to be we,

and the we was expansive,      growing

Me and you,

that's why my heart hurts

My ego desires an 'or'

My soul knows a self oriented comma

would do

My mind is still rattling with question marks

(Nov 2019)

I've got no job,
no kids,
no partner,
no pets,
paid the rent,
and no substantial debts,
in need of nourishment,
yet of these prospects,
I'm circumspect,
tell me which
is heaven sent
and I swear
I'll bend my will, this time
for the blessing.

Rot (Jan 2020)

Attached to the pain, the dirtiness, the regret and guilt.
I don't find myself dwelling on the positives, but the putrid.
This is the bond of trauma, the vortex, 
sharing this pain doesn't cause connection, 
only further cutting away, 
it doesn't expand, 
it doesn't shift the paradigm to that which was once unseen, 
it blocks and distorts, 
maligns the beautiful, 
sours the sweet,
In desire to pair the complex notes,
another spoiled batch, 
only one way to find a better match,
move forward. 

Dissipate (Feb 2020)

I dedicate this to you,

            but first, 

                        fire

            -scorch the earth collected 

            blow out the flame, 

                  watch,     inhale,   let go

the whispers reach heavenward,       

the scent broadens through the space,

-and with it,

the taste of

            the first painful bite

            an outline traced

            as plumes of smoke

            recreate your face

a memory, 

            twirls, salutes

                    twists into nothingness

                                                let go

snakes across my collar bone, 

            knotting into my chest, 

branching across the bridge of my nose

to aggravate my eyelashes

                                                let go

cascades, 

            diving, colliding this;

                        sorrow swirls,

            taut and flaring,

                        a maelstrom uprooting

                                                let go

                        watch them narrow, eddy

            watch them divide,

forked fingers,            fearful

            bent knuckles, twisting,

                        tapping the vaporous

            scratching 

                        until dissolution 

                  watch,     inhale,   let go.

Lost in you

Fell off the boat, 
the gentle water rocking, 
didn't even notice at first, 
how my clothes became soaked, as I 
fantasized 
I was the ocean.
Thought how pleasant
it could be, to just stay
diffused that way, 
each part of me lost in the 
larger unseen, my head rocked on top
-pretending to not
be caught up...
but then, the first nip,
called me to clarify, 
I burst up the ladder, 
thoughts a panic,
hands taking stock
shocked, by the promise held 
in that first nibble. 

...and yet,  still, 
I am called to the sea.

Written years ago...

What a strange new thing, this
now what to say…
keenly aware of a muscle twitch, two shades too far
to keep plain faced.
I say
Have you…
then trail off again
knowing each question brings up the
inevitable story neither of us
wants to hear –said aloud .

-Sometimes, words make things real
sometimes so do tears, so
she asks me to stay emotionless
scared that empathy would
trigger memories.
And I…
fear her mask falling
cuz I need to see her strong
or
maybe I’d succumb to the violent cycle
of my brother’s who done her wrong.

I Am That / Cristoforo Colombo (April 2018)

Those boys approach things as you do, and you like it. But it causes ya to grin to see yourself socialized as such, no? To recognize how boys gather a handful of knowledge preemptively, curiously turn it over, and then present it with a slight twist, “I own this now, but I will offer it to you,” or because we are ‘nice boys,’ “Hey, is it ok if I claim I found this? I’ll share (because I am sure you’ll give me credit.)” Oh boy, wow…, are you being too cynical or is this an attempt to recognize complexity again and apply an honest frame? Testing a statement to check it’s fit?  -I am that.

      And white girls, with that working-class bravado, that bluntness, who mumble things with their faces down; then get wide eyed and in frustration share: inspirational in their honesty and willingness to just claim the place where they are that day. I love that. People who can say what’s on their mind. Bringing up the elephant parts as if they were just discovered, we’re all so Columbian after all. That little wrinkle of our socialization, that little acknowledgment that our proclaimed values may be different than our actions, that implicit bias showing, even as we proclaim ourselves wide eyed and knowing. -I am that.

      And of the fair youths, sweet and lost. Wow, those are beautiful beads. Blinking too much, exposed anew. Look away. Don’t look away. Palms sweaty, stomach in knots. If I don’t do it they’ll think I am a coward. Looking bored, looking tired. I don’t want to feel this guilty. Head down, mumbled speech. Just don’t say anything stupid, be part of the group. Follow the orders, follow the leader (lol)  -I am that.

      And the anxious advocates amongst us, so used to being righteous that we end up stumbling, ever tongue tied, forced speech, from the heart, from the gut, from the ache in your back ribs, continue to speak past the point you were making, clutter it up, lose their interest, worry you’ve muddled it, close your chapped lips, replay the moment, play it again, play back the entirety of your life, oh! that shameful loop, heart knotted, analyze and blame yourself, question with your clenched throat, breathe and cough, and cough and choke, try again, that eternal loop, from the gut, mind still askew, but find it there again and cling, sooth yourself with that salve of truth, that’s how you’ll know you’re still alive, and I, -am that.

The Listening Heart (April 2018)

A downturned face can mean so many things you know, you know better than you let on, so why do you always assume the silence, the quiet voice, is an opportunity to step in. Sometimes the downturned face is a fight to hold it back, sometimes it’s the protection of the heart, sometimes the contemplation of a reason, and sometimes just a burdensome headache not so well hidden.

          She surprises me sometimes with a roar (*hint), that will always be my favorite thing; the quiet one who speaks truth so beautifully. When I was younger, I might have perceived her voice as raw, and I’d have stepped forward compelled to listen, and then spent all my hours replaying those thoughts alone, praising her for unleashing her righteous anger unhindered (for my benefit). But sometimes when I am in the right space, if I am mindful, I can see the difference between my prejudiced insistence that such anger is natural (read ‘exotic’), and not the product of a billion hours spent carefully crafting, adjusting, attuning and finally fulfilling a human need often mired by a craftwork of hindrances –most invisible to me, but upon which I insist (or often do, at least).

            So, I nod along, this is the conversation I was expecting, hold your prejudices back boy, and listen. Turn your face down if you must hide your shame, but don’t you dare stop listening. Peel back the layers, one gnarly scalpel cut at a time, cringe and grip at the cold air exposure, that’s what it means to be present, that ache, that sting, that’s the shared connection to humanity, now listen with your whole heart exposed.

A Hunger or Nourishment (April 2018)

You took a bite of the wall,
now there is a stone in your belly and a hole through which-
you can see something better. Name it.
Call it out. Let them know.
There are vivid colors, fresh air, sweet abundance.
This drab and bitter, isn’t the only reality.
But remember,
if you cling to your tiny mirador in desperation,
you’re blocking the view.
Try something new.

You’ll need better tools than your crooked teeth.
and more hands, the robust, and the petite,
and words: crafted, chiseled, molded to shape,
so that thoughts become visions,
aspirational hymns fueling movements,
amassing the crowds to march and play,
Remind them!
Remember the story of us?
that’s how the walls come crashing down.

That pain? just a stone ground to fuel within,
trust your gut to handle it,
you’ve spent enough time watching other people
take bigger bites.

Las Ramblas (August 2017)

There are a few places on earth, I've always thought were magical,
Where the spirit of the place seemed to overwhelm the physical space so much that the laws of science and cynicism weren't needed, and didn't have to apply.

The adventure through the streets was so real, that you could feel the demons and the angels resting on your shoulders, clawing and soothing - as they pointed out the choices, undermined the patterns, animated the very stones, and nurtured your path forward- so that though not fated, felt perfectly predestined, as if the universe had prepared (all this time) to greet you.

The muses meet you there,
And until you feel them latch on and compel you to be- you don't recognize how perfectly meaningless reality had once seemed. 

And as you inhale the vapors rising from the street, your corneas flex just right in the midday sun, revealing every color in existence, and the perfectly sculpted comes to life, smiling just right -she waves you forward, and another plays the rhythm of your heartsong echoing off the old stone walls, and suddenly you are crying, suddenly beaming because you can't help but choose hope, can't recognize anything but the beauty of humanity and of creation. 
-that's what it means to wish a street would never end.

Untitled (Jan 2018)

I've started to 

look at old relationships 

as grave markers, abandoned

sarajevo roses trampled upon,

walk across one and the next is

easier, but everytime you

stop to consider, 

oh...

oh... every time.

The collection grows, 

each a different reason, 

and I worry they are 

compiling, 

complicating, 

the next endeavor,

with unwanted

unnecessary 

weight.

But how to let it go?

if they weren't meaningful

I'd not bear them, 

not fill in the gaps with

cement, and beauty

not chisel these remembrances. 

This Reminds Me (Feb 2018)

I remember when we were in high school, I thought you were beautiful, dancing naked in that thunderstorm. –Haven’t I written this before?

            

In psychoanalysis, there is an idea that a person will play out their maladaptive relationship patterns within the therapeutic relationship, that is, they will reveal their unconscious conflicts, their underlying issues. In the therapeutic setting then, the therapist is expected to remain separate but attuned, able to recognize, draw out and guide the person into a different psychological pattern, perhaps to prolong it until they see, perhaps to question it until they understand, to enact it until they can break the pattern once and for all. The theory goes, that if the analyst doesn’t catch it the first time, it will surely repeat, it always repeats. The cognitive-behaviorists say the same, but call it all by different names. As do the transpersonalists, inspired by the Buddhists, Jains and Hindus. 

Samsara

The spinning world, the wandering path, the burden of suffering, the cycle. 

“Isn’t this where we came in?” 

            Have I not been here before? 

This path feels so familiar.

            This reminds me of high school. 

This feeling, is of the last time,                        and of the next time,    I’m sure.

This is   -was             -will be            -again,  

            Dizzily I plea, holding tight to my seat,

Let me off the spinning wheel! 

But your face reminds me of a beloved friend, not so much physically, just the presence. And so, I reach out to her, and you, assuming the similarity must mean something true. You have a new name, but your voice reminds me of another love, and I am sure it’s the same oxytocin in my arteries. Your story reminds me too, and so I continue to reach, as I do, as I have, as I will. 

I write a new poem, and find it suffuses into an old one, the next stanza, so you must be my next verse, next chapter, next friend or lover. But I could have sworn I dreamed you, have known you, have met before. And it must be so, because this is all too familiar. This behavior. This pattern. Isn’t this the same old story…

Karma brought us here. I know the rhythm in my veins, what did I do last time that brought me more of the same? What should I do this time to fulfill my dharma, or to cast it aside and become enlightened? To heal the wound in this unconscious conflict? To address the issue of my attachment?  

Yet again, I’m called to your side with a quick plea and a grin, dopamine drips, my mind splits from the grounded path, drifting, scattered, some part of me always wanted to learn to be care free, to float towards the heavenly, some part of me has always wondered why I cling to the dirt, claw for its regulations, moral anchors, dense and dull. I see them now my grasping hands, my rigid stance, even as my heart drifts toward the intoxicating scent, the fantasy flight, enamored and clambering, where am I again? And this is how I am split open, a heart butterflied, a soul crucified in its place, struck bridging the divide, I realize I’m tantalused again. 

I’ve been here before, haven’t I? 

I always sooth myself with Gibran’s declaration that the lute must be hallowed with a knife. oh, I listen to your song, tantalized, oh, I wait on each word, eye wink, hand caress, drawn breath and smirk. oh, These are the instruments playing, and I love a crescendo as much as the silence between the plucked notes, oh, those strummed chords, oh, I know this, its clenched ache, its longing to release, you’re playing my heart song, again, oh om.

Was it not Judas, who, with such noxious lips, embraced the lord, condemning himself, and yet saving the world? Not knowing the part that he played, he saw only the vicious cycle of his attachment repeating, the betrayal of himself again and again, this unconscious wound split open and un-mended -and by his dharmic suffering sanctioned the miraculous.

Chained to the wheel of longing and sorrow, focus on one point to dispel the dizziness, proclaim it beautiful, raise up the pedestal so that from any position in the spin, you can still proclaim your devotion to the idol -and even if it’s a new love* tomorrow, worry not, the familiarity will follow.

I’ve come to expect the hurt, ever enticed by the sirens’ pull, as Goldmund had to find out, despite logical Narcissus’ warning. And between the suns and moons, that set me spinning, I meditate, learn to discern between stories, practice crafted words, taming my tongue to sing others songs so that I can stay anchored while they enact them again and again. Watching the river flow to the sea, drift up into the sky, collect, and crash again.  

But I remember, as the world and you spun, your arms outstretched, the flashing terrible, and glistening and cold - so vulnerable in your need, so giving in your desire, you pressed your tongue into my mouth, and ground your soaking skin onto mine, and for a moment I thought, this feels right, so beautiful and human, so familiar.

Sun and Dust (May 2018)

I was waiting for you to reach out, and for that reaching to mean something more. 
Though I could not presume my arms were sturdy enough to hold.
My stance, grounded enough to share the weight.
But sometimes still, I wait.

As if to see, the color underneath, once the murky water clears, I had one time a glimpse, which, I thought might mean I understood.

But simplicity was never caught, 
and
sometimes I hope she'll never be. 

And the light and shadows' glistening,
by distance made a softened storm, ever shifting, 
resistant, ripe and rare, 
for at least this little while, 
shall hold my curiosity,

if not something more. 

Jonah

Where are you right now?

Swallowed by a fish, captured in the liquid of their guts, not so dissimilar to the outside world, all around them. But is it their story that’s moving you through, their muscles pressing and agitating forward, is it what you wanted. Your parasitic desire to be swallowed whole, to merge into another, grounded and sorted until your story isn’t able to be told, without a mention of the sea.

And what really, do you know of this majestic spirit, this swimming, dancing, creature of the grand unknown, did you ever learn to translate whale song or are you merely fantasizing again. With teeth like that, easy enough to be captured, skin so soft, wise eyes so full of longing,   -so longing fills you, pinches and pulls, not gentle at first, all siren pining, and then it dissipates and dulls and you find yourself wondering, why everything tastes no good, why time alone, feels too much like sand grit sinking, pushing against the deep waters current, without direction or vision, or heart song.

So you ask yourself why not seek out a lift, a little something to make the mix more delightful, the moment hopeful, why question what the heart knows, why grow discouraged by gravitational pulls? A ride, is all, make it symbiotic, but of course –that side of the story will always be unknown, Jonah, how much does the whale miss you?